"The Traveler" Glendale Community College Literary Magazine, 1992

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SPRING 1992 VOLUME 25
. . ...:. . . . " .. I
1f_IIII1IJI~[II.B~~::-. :. :: :.:.: >:.. >:..::.:.::
. . . " ..:." ":-'. . : ".": : :.".": : .. '. ":.. " " :: ::..:::
Art Poetry
Untitled - Lois Meyer 2 Naked Wait - Kristen Christopher 1
Triangles Lost - Elizabeth Ford 6 Recollections From....- Christopher P. Monroe 3
(3-D) Here and After - June Yonnack 9 Stork-Naked Without An Explantion - Charles Smith 8
Reflections - Brian Ring 15 Drizella - Joyce Barton 9
Theta - Lisa Freeman 16 Big Deals - Charles Smith 10
Katherin - Mary Bott 23 Dance With The Angels - Chris Polloy 12
Blue Study Number one - Jean Anton 28 Satin Doll - Robin L. Kendall 13
New Age - Jean Caruso Foresman 29 Flesh - Catalina Schmtiz 16
Night Fire - Scott Reeves 16
Andalusian Nights - Wayne Rexroat 17
Computer Illustration One Rainstorm At A Time - Joan Aragon 22
Iris - Joan Lapre 1 Gray - Jill Walterbeck 22
Finding One'sself - Michelle Mancini 30 Falling Star - Katherine Christopher 24
The Tree - Kameron Hoffs 26
Ixtapa - Donald D. Shuck 28
Illustration Yes, Little Girl- Donal D. Schuck 28
Polaroids - Eric Wincensten 32
Untitled - Stan Lucas 24
Woman - Dan Krier 25
Einstien - Cheryl Traughber 25 Photography
Reflections - Ann Williams 4
Fiction Dead Tree In The Rocks - Troy B. Buchanan 5
Untitled - Diane M. Anderson 8
He Who Holds The Key - Richard Spencer 4 Young Love - Pam Arnaud 10
Let There be (Shattered) Light-Eric Wincentsen 14 Dreams - Ann Williams 11
Fake santa - Vicky Campo 31 What The Children See - Troy B. Buchanan 18
Girl in a Circle - Ann Williams 20
My Wish Tonight - Diane M. Anderson 27
Non - Fiction Free Yourself - Tina Ehler 31
Common Threads - Christina Vela 6
Eulogy - R. Charles Smith 11
Goya Had It Right, Almost - Shelley L. Handley 18
Starlight - Deborah A. Bushman 27
Special Thanks to the art and literary judges: Dr. H. Herlihy, S.
Starbuck, M. Fisher, R. Callahan, Dr. M. Leskovsky, and B. Hufford.
The Traveler staff also thanks the GCC administration and faculty for
their support and help for this year's publication. Although we were
unable to publish everything submitted, we wish to thank each con­tributor
for the excellent, diverse material we received.
Computer Graphic Illustration Iris Joan Lapre
The Traveler 92 1
2 The Traveler 92
Crections from
ach-!Front
Property
Darkness blankets the coast
while the city lights reflect on
the fog that is rolling in.
Plants of the sea lie heaped
up on the beach like discarded,
dirty laundry.
The air is cool, quiet,
perfect.
A loitering pair of birds scurry from
the pearl-strand-necklace of foam
pursuing them from the sea,
waiting only for its brief retreat
to snatch treasured morsels from
the sea's depth.
White sand squinches up between my
toes, only to be washed off by
the next kiss of the ocean.
Lovers pause to take in its
beauty, then off to partake of
other beauties of nature and themselves.
Slowly, silently, secretly, like a lion
stalking its prey,
the ocean begins to reclaim
the pale sand.
The sand surrenders.
A bicyclist rides past with
a squeaky, rusty chain defying
the silence.
The ocean roars -
broken was the symphony.
A far off light flickers,
piercing the darkness like a
candle.
A flock of birds fly overhead.
The symphony begins again,
Gentle, hinting as to what was
about to come.
Swells of the life-giver
erupt in violent thunderings
only to frighten the birds
and the necklace of foam a
bit more away.
A laughter can be heard from
'neath the waves, an eerie
song without music.
The far off light awakens
me from my hypnotic trance.
I bid Neptune farewell,
so beautiful and yet so
powerful.
Christopher P. Monroe
The Traveler 92 3
~'\'r------------------ First Place Fiction
~ \ He Who Holds The Key
\ Richard E. Spencer
Third Place Photography Reflections Ann Williams
4 The Traveler 92
The Keys. They held the secret.
They had to. There were more than a
hundred keys on each ring. The two rings
were connected by a short heavy chain.
Now the keys were all he had left, all
he could use to escape the approaching
footsteps.
He fumbled frantically with the
keys, trying one after another in the doors.
There were eight doors set around the
small, square building, two doors in each
wall. There were no other openings in the
smooth walls. A path ranfrom door to door
around the structure. It was well worn
because he had spent much of his time
attempting to open these doors. The walls
themselves emitted afaint glow. Although
this illumination hadfaded over the years,
it was still sufficient to see as key after key
failed to unlock the doors. The light ex­tended
to the outer edge of the path. Be­yond
this was nothing, only blackness. And
out of the dark came the sounds of the
footsteps.
It wasn't much of a cave as far as
caves go, only about twenty feet deep and
half again as wide. Daylight was able to
penetrate the furthest reaches of the cave
through its large mouth. The floor was
smooth and unbroken with the exception
of two objects. A grass pallet was made up
along one wall. A short distance from this
was a small earthen water pitcher. On the
bed was the shrunken form of Ma-hati.
As a guru, he had spent most of
his life in meditation but found the mate­rial
world too distracting. Over twenty
years ago, he had come to this remote place
seeking isolation and nirvana. High up on
this mountain he had found the cave which
he now called home. What had drawn him
here was the wind which whistled con­stantly
and melodiously past the mouth of
the cave. This soft, peaceful music was
disturbed now by the harsh, gasping
breathing ofMa-hati. His body was tom by
violent spasms and intense shivering. The
end was near, and yet he was unfulfilled.
As he hurriedly fumbled with the
keys, one after another, he reflected upon
them. He had been collecting them all his
life, the same way that other men collected
and hoarded money. With every journey,
every experience, he had discovered a key
and added it to the ring. (The footsteps
were very near now.) After a time, he'd
added the second ring and now that, too,
was full. "Vishnu," he cursed, wondering
why he had so many keys. "All I need is
one," he thought to himself, "the right
one."
The light from the building was
getting dimmer. It was difficult to discern
the keys. The darkness was closing in and
hadalmost obscured the path. The dreaded
footsteps were at the edge ofthe darkness,
steady, unwavering, approaching ever
nearer.
Ma-hati's eyes fluttered open. It
was dark. He had made it through another
day. Slowly, painfully, he reached for the
pitcher. He knew instinctively where it
was in the pitch black. After drinking, he
placed it in the exact same position. Then,
sighing, he wearily fumbled under the pal­let
for his cache of dried fish. Seeing to his
physical needs had exhausted him, and he
collapsed, soaked with sweat, back on his
bed. The tight knot ofpain in his chest was
agonizing. He tried to concentrate on the
music of the wind. But it could barely be
heard over the dry, rasping and grating
gasps eminating from his aching, pain­wracked
body. As the night air cooled the
sweat, Ma-hati's eyes slowly closed.
The footsteps were right behind
him now, loud and echoing. He ran around
the structure and tried to fit a key into a
lock. He tried three more times before he
had to run from the footsteps again. He
couldn't keep this up for long. He would
eventually tire, and the footsteps would
remain steady. Again and again he would
try a couple ofkeys, run, try a couple keys,
run. Around and around the dimming
structure he ran, pursued by the ominous
and untiring footsteps.
His eyes opened again. It was
light. Ma-hati had made it through one
more night. As he reached for his water, he
let out a small cry of pain. After taking a
few sips, he replaced the pitcher and didn't
notice when it tipped over. He lay there
trembling and moaning. He didn't notice
the peaceful whistling of the wind. He
didn't notice the water trickling towards
his palletfrom the small puddle. And slowly
his eyes closed again.
In the dim light, he tried two more
keys. Unbelievably, the second onefit and
turned. The footsteps stopped, and there
was handupon his shoulder. The lightfrom
the building gave one last bright flicker,
then went out, and there was only black­ness,
dark and cold.
It wasn't much of a cave as far as
caves go. The smooth floor was broken by
only two objects. Asmall earthen waterjug
was lying on its side. Ashort distance from
this was a grass pallet with a still and silent
form lying upon it. And in the silence, there
was only the music of the wind _
Richard E. Spencer
Honorable Mention Photography Dead Tree in the Rocks Troy B. Buchanan
The Traveler 92 5
'r------------------- Honorable Mention Non-Fiction
\------------- Common Threads an Essay
L- -----'-- Christina Vela
ommon
Threads
an
Essay
Christina Vela
6 The Traveler 92
As silent as a graveyard, it overwhelms onlookers
by its size alone. Hanging from the ceiling and laid out on
the floor, it could fill the exhibit hall twice over. Once one
steps by each panel, so lovingly sewn, one realizes it is not
silent at all but very vocal in the images it produces of
persons who have died of Acquired Immune Deficiency
Syndrome, AIDS. Such is the Common Threads Memorial
AIDS Quilt as it was displayed at the Phoenix Civic Plaza.
It represents to many the love and emotion with which they
remember their loved ones, whose spirit is immortalized in
every panel.
Although the panels are individual in color and
design, they span the spectrum of personalities. A beige
lace shawl is sewn into one blanket, and a black shawl is
pinned on another. Dresses and stockings come to life on
black felt, while white champagne glasses gently tip over
on velvet. A pensive charcoal sketch of a man crouching
on a beige background catches glimpses from viewers.
Pictures and even car keys set a tone of melancholic
reminiscence as they lie forever pinned to a tribute to a man
who smiled a lot. Teddy bears create mischief on several
panels. One of these furry creatures, complete with leather
vest and cap, daringly rides a motor cycle. Colorful rain­bows
and glittering stars shine brightly, simulating a much
sought after peaceful plane following death.
More profound than the beautiful designs are the
names and messages sewn onto each blanket. "Leave the
porchlight on; I'll be home soon," states one in bold red
letters. "For Baby," says another in yellow cursive writing. "I love you" and "we love you" blare
in profusion in English, Spanish, and French. Multi-lingual names, Espinoza, Consales, Kunz, and
Laubach, give identification to what otherwise would be anonymous numbers that grow year after
year. Some panels whisper intimacy, "For John, Love, David" or "For Tom, From someone who
knew him." All show love however anonymous or personal the messages may seem.
As one feels the affection emanating from each panel, one can see the griefon faces as they
tearfully move by. People from all walks of life come to view the quilt. White, Black, Asiatic, or
Hispanic, it no longer matters. Men hug each other; women tightly hold hands. A few stoop over
to touch a panel or grab a kleenex from strategically placed boxes around the room. One young girl
• • • • • ..' • •
sits Indian-style in front of a quilt quietly reading from some letters pinned to it. With a hand to her face, the other on
the quilt, she cries unashamedly. She knows why she is there. She wears the white shirt and shorts typical of volunteers
who have helped with the project. An older couple stand arm in arm across the room. One wonders whether it is a child,
friend, or sibling that they have lost. Their losses are everyone's, so many cry at every panel. To see names and faces
opens a wound. Another one has died.
Maybe the onlookers have not shared a meal, a conversation, or a bed with the deceased, but the regret and
griefcome anyway. Because they have never had a chance to know them, they are all less. Each panel means someone
less in their lives. To add to that somber emotion comes the stark realization that next year's quilt will be bigger._
The Traveler 92 7
the words rang through my head
my child wanted answers
the question parents dread
One false word might end it all
so my pace at start was slow
for this was really testing me
What do 1 really know?
"Uhm "
(That's how 1started)
"You see "
(I soon went on)
"Uhm ."
(I reiterated, before I carried on)
"Well, first I met your mother
and then we fell in love
your Mom and 1 got married
with blessings from above
then we planned a family
(I wish I'd planned this speech)
and now back to your question
the answer I will teach"
"Let's see "
(The thoughts 1sweated)
"Is Dairy Queen closed yet?
Why don't we go for Ice Cream?
A Blizzard you can get"
Imagine my elation
when my child roared "O.K.!"
and no other word was spoken
by me along the way
and yet I am so thankful
1 could stay my little chore
for my son was bribed with Ice Cream
at age of twenty-four
R. Charles Smith
or
e .I
-
--=Z I
_~ea
--_.:I. z
----=-II. -----
__a= Ja
What would she know
of loneliness
bland, sand-colored days slowly
sifting through narrow fragile glass into
cold blue midnights
with no one
save the company of a wretched
old maid sister who wanders
barefoot down empty halls listening
for echoes
of might-have-been dreams,
and mother
the "once lovely, belle of the ball,"
she tells us daily,
thin grey hair stringing over
a face deeply creased
from a critical countenance.
Her "if only's" driving
deep the sword
of disillusionment
into the dried-up chambers
of my heart
What would she know, my golden
stepsister and her channing one
enthroned in their picture book lives
never turning pages of want
or need never asking
Why?
Joyce Barton
First Place Poetry ------------------t/~
Drizella --------------t( ~
Joyce Barton ------.1....-----
3 - D Prizewinner Here & After June Yormack
The Traveler 92 9
DEALS
'TIl trade ya?" she'd say,
and it always seemed quite fair
just a tiny little matchbox car
for a great big ball of hair.
"Well, I don't know?" were my first words.
"Come on, It's such a deal
the ball of hair is bigger
it really is a steal."
''I'll trade ya?" she'd say.
I'd look down at all my toys.
I guess the horses were for girls
10 The Traveler 92
and lint was made for boys.
"Well, I don't know?" were my first words.
"Come on, you'll make out good.
I'll never offer lint again
not even if I could."
''I'll trade ya?" she'd say,
And I'd run and get my things
'cause she had yellow paper
and I, just dumb gold rings.
"Well, I don't know?" were my first words.
"Come on, and end this caper.
You really never use the rings
but could always use the paper."
And then one day I looked around
the things she'd traded me:
the ball of hair, the piece of lint
and paper were just three.
So many things I had to cry,
for I finally came to see
she must have loved me most of all
'cause she'd only trade with me.
R. Charles Smith
Third Place Non-Fiction _------I7~
Eulogy ------------I( ~
R. Charles Smith I
f£ ufogy
Sorry, I haven't visited in awhile.
It's not that you haven't been on my mind.
I've been busy. I was sure you knew I
hadn't forgotten you. Five years is a long
time, isn't it?
To tell the truth, I was a little
surprised that I was able to find this place,
having been here only once. Not much has
changed. Oh, the trees are taller, the bushes
fuller, but it's still the same place with the
same emotions.
One ofthe things that has changed
is the flowers. They should be here. I guess
I thought they always would be. But like
everything else, flowers also die. It's strange
how we expect things to stay the same.
They don't, do they?
Second Place Photography Dreams Ann Williams
I was trying to think of the last
thing we had done together; I couldn't.
That sounds terrible. I can't remember the
last thing we'd done together. But maybe
I'm not supposed to remember. Maybe the
last time I saw you should be forgotten.
There were better times, like the time you
helped me catch my first fish.
We were on the shore of the lake.
It was a cold winter morning, and steamy
wisps of fog were rising off the water. The
quiet surrounded us. Once in awhile, rip­pling
circles of water would expand as fish
jumped to snatch bugs from the lake's
surface. The silence snapped as you cast
your fishing line into the water. You waited
for me to do the same. When I felt a nibble
on my line, your instructions were to give
a slight tug, then reel in the fish.
I felt the nibble just as you said I
would. I was so excited I yanked the fish
out ofthe water without reeling it in. It flew
over our heads and onto the rocks behind
us. I still remember the look on your face.
I put that poor little fish through hell just to
throw it back.
That was a fun day. Wejust never
seemed to have enough of those times
together. There was so much you and I
wanted to do. It's not fair to lose someone
you love. I think what bothered me the
most was that you had to be here alone.
Mom and I looked after each other, but
who was taking care of you? That's what
faith is for, isn't it? Mom always had faith;
she knew you were fine. She felt closest to
you when she came here to leave flowers.
Can I tell you something? It's not
that I've been too busy to come; that was
just an excuse. I just couldn't bring myself
to visit this place.
So now it is five years later, and
I'm the one who's alone. You and Momare
finally together again. I know you two will
be fine. That's what faith is for, isn't it?
Take good care of Mom. I love you, Dad.
R. Charles Smith
The Traveler 92 11
< •
..., . - ~ .... 10' :'"
Come my little demon
and look at your dead mother.
Poor little demon
wants to dance with the angels.
Think thoughts of the Bastard, love to
hate Him,
think of ways to kill, spill His acid grin,
wish for the strength to still His stale
heart,
but if He does not die then run again,
pray He won't find you and cut-up your
carcass,
you would deserve it, spreader of unholy
sin,
you are only twelve, but you are lost,
pray you're not already like Him.
Come my little demon
and dance with your mother.
She still lives
but you do not.
Dream of necklaces with crisp glass
shards,
wear them with honor, wear them with
pride
for the Devil is your only lover
and He rests in your mind deep down
inside,
cross through His rivers of urine and
razors,
feel your flem-flesh smolder like paper,
swim without feeling, mourn without
praise,
travel to red realms while your mother
decays,
know never of innocence, know
;.)_('::.: ,,;~,"V(~~•. ~ '.0 ••
""",~ ....~...•r •
-'< ~" ~~:"::::'~"~"~<~' ;..:~? ~; ~';--:~.~>'~'~'::'~'~~:~':~~{':\ ~', .
.... , . ...
-...
Dance
The
Angels
skitter-scatter, splinter-splatter allover
the rug,
tell him you're sorry and all is forgiven,
but know that this pain will serpent
within,
no interpretation, no imagination, no
destination,
know that this madness will always
spin.
.,
Come my little child
and dance with the angels.
Come my little child
crunch crickets with your feet.
And in the closet, the night-nympths
will chuckle,
traces of light will gargle ghost-glue,
paint this picture upon your gravestone,
let it grow larger and become you,
a child that will never know truth from
lies,
a charcoal-crib calling, a death dis­guise,
you are real and unreal and in­between,
you can play with memories of
kerosene.
Come my little child to Heaven.
Come my little child.
Let the angels bring you to Heaven
Honorable Mention Poetry
Dance With The Angels
Chris Pollay
And the folded distortions of cement­crusted
air
shall swallow all your breaths, your
dreams,
your insignificant yellow fears will be
tossed
into caverns of fiery bodies and screams,
the demons will rise up and suck
the vomit from your veins,
and His laughter, like lamb blood,
will scramble your skull shields
and devour your brains.
Come my little child
and dance with the angels.
Come my little child to
Heaven.
And never forget the worms in His
eyebrows,
never let your wrist slip upon His blade,
cringe at His darkness, crawl through
your closet,
watch Him consume the creations you
made,
and as your mother spits vessels of
vermin,
listen closely to the echoes of her terror,
watch her die quickly
but feel her die slowly
and haunt you forever.
And as the Bitch stumbles, the Bastard
will kick her,
battering her eyes with whispers of love,
see His stone hands dig through her
cheekbone,
12 The Traveler 92
Honorable Mention Poetry
Satin Doll
Robin L. Kendall
never of childhood,grow to be a man that
craves his own blood.
Come my little demon
you don't know if you're evil.
Your mother doesn't seem real
but she still loves you.
And your scarred-rings of sulfur will never
recover,
you will never taste redemption or relief,
you must walk with weakness, speak with
blackness,
you must weave worlds with dead belief,
Remember your mother, visit your grave­yards,
but never believe a word she tells you
for you both still live in a slave sorrow-shell,
if you should find happiness, you will not like
it, you will always prefer Hell.
Satin
Doll
Found a satin doll,
it wore red shoes,
and danced to Hungarian Rhapsody.
Told stories of prohibition,
boycotts, and drugs,
said heroin was white.
Beautiful world we live in, what can we do
with it now?
Found a satin doll,
it wore a yellow dress, and read essays by
Huxley.
Said a good man was shot in the back,
said a prayer,
and no one heard it.
Beautiful world we live in, what can we do
with it now?
The Traveler 92 13
Robin L. Kendall
Found a satin doll,
it wore black gloves,
and sang to the theme of "Love Story."
Told stories of socialism, democracy,
and communism,
said freedom was good.
Said the Allegiance and pledged my faith,
said a prayer and hoped someone heard it.
Chris Pollay
~.
'.
Come my little child
t!"L"'-.......... and dance with the angels.
,,,;'.':, '. ';. Come my little child 'fM • .1
't.'!-:' -....:;, don't forget to die.
., . :.-, Come my little child
" - and dance with your
mother. . <". f ":; know that you both
./;.,.....1 ....... -1
. ·u· ,:.. are far from
+•• , Heaven.
J. - ~' . ,;;
..r.,..f'
i.t: .' ~ ,
\------------------ Second Place Fiction
\------------ Let There Be (Shattered) Light
Eric Wincentsen
Let There Be (Shattered) Light
knocking.No,
not really a
knocking.
Just a silent
tapping at the
door.
The
room was not
an unusual one. Red carpet and curtains,
the light shining through made it look hot,
even though there was no heat to speak. of.
Alarge wooden table and a director's chair
were the only furniture.
The tapping grew louder, until it
really was a knock. The knock increased to
a steady pounding, as if someone had de­cided
to bring the world's largest bass
drum to the house just for the purpose of
driving the inhabitant insane.
And it most definitely was driv­ing
Arnold insane.
Finally, as the pounding began to
sound more like claps of thunder, Arnold
went to the door. Looking through the
peephole, he saw nothing.
"Should I have expected some­thing
tangible?" he said to himself. After
all, he had been over this a thousand times
before in a thousand different variations.
What the hell did it matter anyway?
"Who is it?" he shouted, sud­denly
backing away from the door.
"Why, it is me, the Devil, come to
save your soul," said a calm voice.
The door twisted, became fluid, a
shimmering pool which expanded and then
(shattered)
Athousand small suns shone upon
the ground, reflected through the leaves.
The trees were not anything he had ever
seen before. They seemed to loom over
him and block out something he knew he
14 The Traveler 92
could see but just didn't want to. They
seemed to hide his truth.
There was the sound ofwater. Of
course, this was a forest, and he was prob­ably
near a river.
She stood naked by the river,
looking upwards, as if there were some­thing
worth seeing.
She turned and glanced at him,
smiling at his own nakedness.
He took her as a cloud covered
the sun, and the day grew darker than
nighttime ever dreamed.
He awoke to find that she had
grown old, her beauty gone. She looked at
him, still smiling.
"I grow old as you come to your
conclusion."
"But I am alive, I'm here," he
whispered.
"Really. Then tell me where you
are."
"I ..." He broke off as a window
appeared above him. He floated toward
the window, passed through as the glass
(shattered)
The shards ofbroken glass spread
outacross the nothingness, becomingstars.
The scene became concrete and asphalt.
From what he couId tell, he was
alone on the road. It was late August,
monsoon season still, and he could feel the
tension as the storm clouds gathered over
the cool desert.
The pack was wearing heavy on
his back. "Where the hell are all the cars?"
he wondered aloud. After all, it was a
weekend. Everyone should have been en
route between Phoenix and wherever they
wanted to cool off.
The lights appeared at the top of
a small hill slightly to the south. Through
the dead air he could hear the motor as it
tore down the highway.
"Good," Arnold thought. "I
should be able to make Flagstaff by early
morning." He stuck his thumb out.
The car's headlights were upon
him, and he knew the driver saw him. But
they weren't slowing down.
The car, something painted black
and from the late '60s by the look, pulled
over to the shoulder, but kept up the same
speed.
Arnold tried to run, but too late.
He felt his legs splinter as the car hit him
full force, throwing him into the wind­shield,
the last filling his vision until it
(shattered)
The man's eyes flew open.
"Son? Son, can you hear me?
What is your name?"
The room was white, antiseptic.
He knew it was a hospital. A doctor in a
blue coat stood at the side of the bed.
"Whatis your name?" he repeated.
"He's slipping again," said a nurse
standing a little back from the doctor.
The room became a blur, just a
mixture of sharp white and pale blue.
His eyes closed again.
And his heart beat slower.
In the room again, only this time it
was a cool blue. The table was smaller, and
the chair had been removed. But he knew
it was the same.
The tapping had begun again. So
it would play again.
Still, he would never accept it.
The light played upon the floor. A
cool breeze came through the window,
making the shadows somehow
(shatter) •
Eric Wincentsen
Fine Art "Reflections" Brian Ring
~ .
_ .... :: II
".. ,"-- . ~.--.~--------­-....
The Traveler 92 15
your
16 The Traveler 92
ANDALUSIAN NIGHTS
In a dimly lit village cantina
People speak Spanish so rapidly the words
Are like gentle bullets
Strains of Moorish music
Rum and Coca Cola,
Cerveza,
And strong, bittersweet cafe can leche
Everpresent whores,
At times more precious than friends,
Make time stand still.
Wayne Rexroat
Honorable Mention Poetry
Wtne
fips
me
Inebriated by
defirious
Xiss me
Catarina L. Schmitz
Second Place Non-Fiction
Goya Had It Right, Almost
Shelly L. Handley
Had It Right, Almost
balance myself as I pedaled
and steered in order to ride a
bike. Reflecting, I feel a keen
sense of excitement and sat­isfaction
in those accomplishments. Also,
among those recorded images I remember
a warm picture of showing off my new
talents to my father and mother. They
bought me new shoes with more laces, and
on my ftfth birthday they bought me my
ftrst bike. I have many pleasant memories
ofpalling around with them, imitating their
gestures and wanting to please them but
mostly wanting them to be pleased with
me. Inmyeyes myparents were gods. I put
them on pedestals. I believed and trusted
those faces I looked up into.
I've always been able to remem­ber
vividly the good things in my past. I
don't recall, however,just when it was or
how old I was when I started changing and
forgetting overwhelming, hurtful realities
about the people in my life and the experi­ences
that I had. My coping mechanisms,
itself to torment my mind and soul. Obses­sively,
I've groped in my inner darkness,
infinite and enigmatic, as if I'm going to
find light. I struggle to understand, to make
sense, and to find meaning in man's inhu­manity
to man. It is as ifI believe that some
accurate, concrete explanation will free me
from my personal knowledge of human
suffering and violence.
Almost two years have passed
since my ftrst encounter with this painting,
yet it still haunts me. To be born human
privileges one with a soul and the power to
reason. Nevertheless, those gifted facul­ties
do not guarantee freedom from bestial
behavior. My ability to recognize this can­not
be credited to any learned or religious
institutions but rather to my own past. My
childhood locks mewithin the frame; thus,
I understand something more that Goya
did not paint.
Iremember when I ftnally learned
to successfully put the two bunny ears
together in order to tie my shoes and to
Mymind would seldom wander to
this instructor's office if I had not recog­nized
something of myself there. Seem­ingly
odd, among the disarray of books
both stacked and scattered everywhere was
a picture. It was neither hung on the wall
nor arranged with anything else. Rather it
rested, forward-faced, against a few books.
It was slightly hidden by the dark shadows
from the upper shelf so one could easily
miss it if it weren't so bizarre and gro­tesque.
In its almost nonexistent frame
was a copy of a painting of Saturn devour­ing
his son. But this figure with bulging
eyes, who is savagely ripping and chewing
at the handsome, smaller dangling body
clutched in between his giant-like hands,
resembles human form in only minute ways.
"A monster!", a child would cry out. How­ever,
I did not defensively abandon it for
something more pleasant because I knew
this picture as if long ago a part of it had
crawled deep in my heart and embedded
18 The Traveler 92
Honorable Mention Photography What The Children See Troy B. Buchanan
however, were notall my ingenious inven­tions.
Some beliefs about myself and oth­ers
were passed down to me.
Conflict in my house was always
settled by some sort of control that hurt.
With my oldest sister, the loud voices pro­gressed
into fists hitting flesh. Both my
parents, butmostly my dad, hitand beatmy
eldest sister. My dad would throw Susan
up against walls and into furniture. He
discolored herbodypurple, blue, and black.
I can still hear those terrible sounds that
easily passed through the walls that sepa­rated
mefrom them. Yet, thepainfulmoans
and cries did not travel as quickly. They
crept in slowly overto the floor where I and
my other sister, four years my senior, hid
ourselves behind abed covered with stuffed
animals, pillows, and blankets. It was hard
for menotto feel, to connect with what was
happening, to shut out that that man was
my dad. My sister Sarah cried, but quietly.
I rubbed her back as I curled closer with
her. Together we rocked slightly back and
forth. I would only question, then as well as
years to follow, why couldn't my oldest
sisterjustbe good. Later, when I would see
her, she would be angry and hateful to­wards
my parents. She would even wish
something awful like death would happen
to them. I chose to blame and hate her for
what had happened. After all, it was an
acceptable attitude and perception in my
family, for it was she who had caused my
dad to lose his temper. If she would not
have done anything wrong or argued back,
then my dad would not have been mad. He
would not have beaten her. Therefore, it
was her fault.
When I was four, the skill of
forgetting began. Michael lived next door.
He was the son of my parent's good
friends. He was about nineteen. He had
blond hair, and when I stood by him, he
was as big as my dad. He was strong too.
He could throw me up in the air and catch
me effortlessly as I would laugh from the
thrill. One day when I was in his house
playing with his younger brother, Michael
wanted toplay doctorwith me. His touches
felt tenderas his hands went from my face
to under my clothes. He was going to
listen to my heart he said as he lifted my
shirt over my head. I was scared, but his
voice gently and softly reassured me.
"You can trust me. I'm your
friend. Besides, I only want to show you
The Traveler 92 19
about me grew more and more as the giants
around me, grand in design, perfect with no
faults, ruled like gods towering over me.
My mother, Omnipotent and Omniscient,
often sent down the verdict that I was
demanding, annoying, ugly, nasty, selfish,
slobbish, and stupid. I made lots of mis­takes
like not thinking of others first and
talking too much. Moreover, the tom-boy­ish
way in which I dressed and behaved
caused my mother and older sisters to
laugh at me. They would tease me making
fun of the clothes I wanted to wear and the
way I didn't like to comb my hair or take a
bath. Often my oldest sister would mock
and make fun of me until I would, in rage,
beat myself with my fists and throw my
Ann Williams
body down on the
ground jolting
convulsively until
I'd tire; then, in
shame I'd run and
hide. I felt un­wanted
and ugly.
Inad­equacy
became
my familiar com­panion;
however,
when I was found
at age six touch­ing
my naked body
in my sisters'
room, selfhate and
disgust became an
intimate part of
me. Ashamed, I
stood outside on
the grass in front
of my mother
looking only at my
shoeswhileshein­terrogated
me
about what it was
that I was doing
and why I was do­ing
such a thing?
"Not
even God loves
nasty little girls
who do that kind
of thing. Do you
understand me?
Do you?" she said
leaning over me with one hand on her hip
and the other pointing in my face.
A burning sensation rushed into
my head and face stinging the tips of my
ears. My chest felt punctured as if a blunt
instrument pierced through my ribs and
quickly cut a vast hole. Finally, as if to
escape the fire burning inside of me, I ran
from her into the nearby field of weeds to
hide. She called after me, "I would be
ashamed, too, to show my face. I would
hide, too, if I were you!"
In school, there were other grown
ups that I could not please. My rough,
aggressive demeanor that allowed me to fit
in with the boys and gain affection from
my dad was met with disapproval. Girls
Photography Girl In A Circle
something that
feels good," he said
while looking down into
my face and caressing
my shoulders.
At first, my
body tingled with ex­cited
pleasure. Sud­denly,
however, I felt a
sharp pain as something
went inside me between
my legs where he had
his hand. I squirmed to
move away as he opened
his pants and began to
touch himself. His
breathing was hot and
rapid as his face came
closer to mine. He made
moans, and then I felt
the cold wetness hit my
stomach and chest. I
wanted my clothes. I
wanted to go home, yet I
could say nothing.
Blindly, I stared straight
ahead. He roughly
cleaned me off before
pulling my shirt back
overmy head then shov­ing
my arms into the
sleeves. He whispered
deeply in front of my
face while pushing my
foot into my shoe. "Your
mom will be angry at
you, and she will not love you if she finds
out what you did."
As I walked home, my arms hung
from my shoulders like two heavy dead
weights pulling me down to the ground. I
numbly stood in the doorway for a while
watching my mother iron. She asked me
where I'd been. I nervously muddled out
a reply. "Michael played doctor with me."
She coldly pulied in her eyebrows
and told me not to play that again. She did
not look at me directly but continued to
iron. I went to my room and crawled under
the crib. Back in the darkness, I curled
where no one could see me, and I went to
sleep.
Like a tumbleweed, that shame
20 The Traveler 92
Shelly L. Handley
was the worst though because physically it
stung and hurt so much worse. The blood
would rush into my head and stay as if it
had been boiled to a thick, slow moving
paste, and as if my soul was a shape cut
from paper, iteasily burned. The rue would
curl the edges and flame towards the middle
where my chest would fill with an emo­tional
pajn that was similar in sharpness to
an exposed cavity contaminated with air. I
would have to pull in my shoulders and
separate for the moment from feeling be­cause
I could not let anyone see - I could
not be exposed. I could only feel shame
when no one could see what a horrible
person I was.
I learned other ways, too, to cope
with my shame. I stuffed my real feelings
until there was no more room; then I would
compulsively vomit. I emptied them into a
toilet then flushed them away. I would
deny the whole experience both as I did it
and afterwards too. Mostly, though, I
avoided taking risks. I thought I had to do
everything well. I demanded from myself
perfection, and my reward was a false
sense of"okayness." However, even though
performing at my best, I never saw any
kind of success, just the failures - the things
I messed up. Besides obsessively trying to
avoid making mistakes, I shut out the real
truth about my childhood. I would not
allow myself to recall hiding in closets and
holding my breath in order to numb those
lonely painful feelings of being unlovable
and knowing that not even my parents
really cared. And, like an alcoholic, I did
tmngs like sleep for long periods oftime in
order to keep from admitting the unbear­able
truth that psychologically is too hor­rendous,
painful, and overwhelming. There
are no savages, no monsters, just human
beings,just people whom we trusted, people
whom we loved. No one is evil or crazy,
just sick.
Changing my perceptions, giving
up denjal, to a more real way of seeing
things means feeling the pain in being
violated and deceived in the cruelest of
ways. It was easier, perhaps, when I could
change myself into a boy for my dad and
Mormon for my community and salvation;
I could have selfworth. I did not have to see
anyone as an abuser, and I did not have to
accept that human beings are destructive
______________________ and react in bestial ways.
Most importantly, grow­ing
up in therapy was, and is still,
much harder than surviving the abuse
as it happened. Healing isn't just
about closing those deep wounds
---------------------- and holding others responsible.
Rather, it is learning not to perpetuate my
own self-damaging defensive behaviors
like vomiting, repressing, rationalizing, and
perfecting and pleasing. All that is diffi­cult,
and I want desperately for someone
else to accept responsibility for finding me
lovable, wonderful, and worthwhile. How­ever,
it is up to me now to learn to accept
and care about myself without rejecting
any part of me despite what mistakes I
might make. This unconditionally caring
for myself isn't easy, and I often find it
difficult not to label myself and to find the
energy to have patience, understanding,
and compassion instead of criticism and
harsh judgements.
Even though my past troubles me
less and I grow further from it each day, I
find I am still in the dark looking for some
panacea that will make the evil that people
do to each other something less than tor­menting.
Goya's painting is confrontational
concerning that evil, yet it is easy to
depersonalize the monster in the canvas.
Saturn does not resemble anyone close to
us - anyone whom we would love. There
are many ten-foot giants, all knowing and
all powerful standing over children doing
ineffable things to them, and the biggest
deception is that they are parents, other
family members, neighbors, teachers....
People who are warm and caring, people
we know and often think well of •
%ere are no savages, no monsters,
just human beings, just peop{e whom
we trusted, peop{e whom we roved.
were supposed to be soft and quiet, not
talkative and competitive. I got into trouble
because I was stubborn and wanted to be
told the "whys." Besides my looks and
behaviors not fitting in, I was not of the
same Mormon religion that almost every­one
at school was. And on my clothes, my
classmates could smell the smoke aroma
from my parents' cigarettes. In our house,
coffee was good with cream and
sugar, and on Sundays we did not
attend any church but played and
worked in the yard or helped my
dad clean his office building. At
school, and not just on the play­ground,
the general consensus was
that Satan worked in our lives, and I and
my family were going to Hell. We would
not be saved. In addition, it wasn't unusual
for some of my peers and teachers to pass
other judgements and assumptions about
me and my family not being good but bad.
Moreover, afew teachers shoved me around
and found ways to humi liate me, judge me,
mock me, and reject me. I had no right to
argue, to protest, or to fight back; that only
made them right about my being bad. Be­sides,
although it was painful, I feared they
were right. They knew better than I and had
God on their side. Perhaps, I could argue
with my peers, but grown-ups were always
right. In addition these people were good.
It was me who was bad.
However, as time passed, I fi­nally
got better at being more like them and
less like me. I quit being like a boy and
became a Mormon. I made myself be un­derstanding,
agreeing, nice, giving, for­giving,
obliging, accommodating, polite,
and responsible. I became hypervigilant to
learn quickly what was socially okay for
me to think, feel, and do. I did not trust my
own feelings, thoughts, and behaviors but
rather censored them into what others put
forth as "Shoulds." And, after making a
mistake, voices inside my head would scold
me for not knowing better. These same
voices would shout how stupid I was for
not getting it right. Mistakes were bad I
learned but what was worse was to ques­tion
Authority, The Bible, or God because
when I did, I felt overwhelming feelings of
inadequacy, fear, guilt, and shame. Shame
The Traveler 92 21
One Rains LW:JII..-.....-.---=--~~=::::-
at a Time
The river of sand in the desert
appears not to flow,
and minute grains of rock and stone seem
stranded in their passage, on their way
to who knows where.
But the bits and pieces that were once boulders,
do indeed move forward, one rainstorm at a time.
Onward they flow until the moisture disappears
beneath the surface, and there they rest and
wait for the next, not too frequent, downpour
that will fill their bed with water, baptize,
and send them on their way.
The river of sand flows onward as it winds
its way to no~er~ne rainstorm at a time.
~-:fcll~V. Aragon
-.... -
(js~~~'Y
Life passes
Through
Long shadow days.
Always busy,
Yet the meaning fades.
Life passes
As the wind moves on,
Touching few.
Time drifts through
Unnoticed,
As gray on gray becomes old.
Jill Walterbeck
22 The Traveler 92
Time
A small girl
sitting in the big rocking chair
with her toes barely touching the wooden
floor,
gazes up at the big clock.
She dreams of becoming a woman,
until the day she longs to be a child,
sitting in the old worn out rocking chair.
The wise old clock
almost smiling,
taunts her.
He knew all along.
Kimberly Bone
Fine Art Untitled Mary Bott
The Traveler 92 23
The Traveler 92
Woman Dan Krier
A Napkin
A napkin.
small. square
\\hite \\ith formed edges.
lying simply.
on a table.
An aroma drifting:
s\\"eet perfume.
Smeared lipstick.
cherry red.
The room dim.
lovers gone.
leaving t\\ a empty \\ine glasses.
two empty chairs.
and ..
KymmM.Pash
Albert Einstien Cherly Traughber
The Traveler 92 25
....,
The Tree of Life,
that gives all to mankind,
receiving nothing in return,
His spirit grows anew, even under adversity.
His warmth and love are felt by all in spite of His death.
His dreams of spreading joy throughout the world
grow like the branches of a tree in spring.
Love is His defense, taking all abuses,
and in return loving His enemies.
His arms,
spread
like
branches,
invite a
tired world
to come to Him.
.. . '
.' . . ".
.. . . '
. . .,' .
. '. ...
:": .':
1
Photography My Wish Tonight Diane M. Anderson
•
t
It is early summer, a wann night
encompassed by a black velvet sky in which
are set hundreds of stars. I have set up my
telescope on the front lawn. I am an ama­teur
astronomer but a professional at ex­periencing
the sense of wonder.
Tonight I will attempt to locate
the star Deneb, in the constellation Cygnus
- the Swan. To begin my astronomical
sojourn, it is my habit to move out into the
night in stages of distance. I begin by giv­ing
myself the opportunity to gaze at the
moon a while, my eye moving over bril­liant
silver and the deep gray shadows of
craters and lunar mountains. I move on to
Mars and Venus. Fortunately, both are
visible tonight. .Then the search for Cygnus
begins as I follow an astronomy book's
instructions to locate her. Carefully I move
among the signposts ofother constellations
as night progresses and the moon rises
higher above me. I locate the Swan and the
star Deneb.
Within myself, I have moved far
beyond the world of traffic, news, school,
and preparing dinner. I reflect on my being,
which evolved from the condensing ele­ments
which became Earth. I am made of
star stuff; I have direct kinship with light.
I have no concept of how long I
have been looking through the universal
window of my telescope. Time is not an
absolute dictator of infinity as it is in the
daily experience of human society. The
light from the star Deneb that I am now
studying was emitted years ago. But I am
receiving it in my concept of the present. I
gaze at past light reflecting offthe mirror of
my telescope to be captured by my eye,
brain, and being.
Within my being, I carry the en­tire
genetic code of Earth, back to the
beginning of one-celled life, back to the
fire that began our planet, on back, further
still to the infinite dimension where chemi-cals
began to mix, later to ignite and con­dense
into the star that mothered Earth.
Carried within my being are mysterious
templates for the future. Where is the present
then? Perhaps it is an ever-dissolving
balance - the fulcrum between past and
future that cannot be captured.
As I stand on my front lawn in
Phoenix, Arizona, I fill my being with past
and future light. I have at all moments,
within myself, the light of all love ever
given to me. The radiance of the hand that
wiped away my tears when I was a child
now shines out from me into the night. This
light-love was last emitted twenty years
ago. From out of the distances of my inner
universe, it can be viewed in my eyes
tonight. It is this luminescence that I am
now shining into the night, to Deneb, the
planets, the moon and the other universes
within other conscious beings. Decipher
my mysteries if you can, and give me your
light in return.
Deborah A. Bushman
The Traveler 92 27
\---------------- Second Place Poetry and Third Place Poetry
\.------------Ixatapa and Yes, Little Girl
l------L-------Donald D. Shuck
IXTAPA
The solstice sun bums through the jungle
haze
And ignites the feathers of my mask
In purple flame
The skin of the snake
Reflects the fire of the altar
Iridescent on my chest
Another heart sizzles on the gold platen
As the priests watch hungrily
Another slave is stretched
Across the stone
Pale breasts glisten
In the tropic sun
She watches with
Strange light eyes
The stone dagger
Without fear as I repeat the rite
Plunge downward, and wake with a start
To see your dark hair fallen on my waist
Feel your breath tickling my thigh
Peacefully asleep I remember the
afternoon
The sighing, crying and pleasure
Still ring in my head like a dream
You stir .... Open strange light eyes
Look without fear at me and whisper
I lie back and dream of Ixtapa
Plunge the dagger of stone through the
jungle of night
And see
the sun
Donald D. Shuck
28 The Traveler 92
Fine Art Blue Study Number One
YES, LITTLE GIRL
Yes, little girl,
I wanna take
Your momma for a ride
So slow and long
So long and slow
Yes, little girl,
I wanna take
Her on that ride
She got hips on Cadillac
Springs and Electra shocks
Yes, little girl,
I'm gonna take
Her for that ride
And don't she wanna go
Lord don't she wanna go
Yes, little girl,
I wanna take
Your momma for a ride
But I'm not tellin'
Where we gonna go
cause I don't think
She want you to know
Donald D. Shuck
Second Place Fine Art New Age Jean Caruso Foresman
The Traveler 92 29
Prize Winner Computer Illustration
30 The Traveler 92
Finding One'self Michelle Mancini
First Place Photography Free Yourself Tina Ehlert
Third Place Fiction
Fake Santa
Vicky Campo
~
~
~
(D
Fake Santa
C/J.
~
=::s
f"'"'f"
~
"We loved you!"
The mothers rushed forward and
dragged Santadown from his Santa
chair.
"Crucify him!"
"Yes!"
"Yes!"
"Crucify!"
"Yes!"
Santa, in his Santa suit, sat high
up in his Santa chair inside the Santa work­shop
in front of Neiman Marcus. The line
of children reached down the mall as far as
Saks Fifth Avenue. They had mothers
holding one hand and lists of hopes and
dreams in the other.
Two elves worked with Santa.
Onetook pictures, and the other took money.
The children would climb upon the lap of
Santa and recite their lists of hopes.
"Have you been good this year?"
Santa would ask. "Santa only brings pre­sents
to good little boys and girls."
"Oh, yes, oh, yes!" the children
cried.
The elves gave the children candy
canes, and the mothers bought the pictures.
Another child approaches Santa.
He is so small and so afraid. He cries
because, although he knows who Santa is,
he doesn't know if he should trust him.
The mother pushes him forward
and plops him up on Santa's lap. The elves
try to take his picture, but the boy is crying
so. The boy begins to kick and squirm and
tries to get away, but Santa holds on tighter
in hopes that the elves might get the picture
yet.
All the children in the line begin
to look on, trying to see why Santa is
making a little boy cry.
The little boy's arms begin to flail
about.
Santa is becoming tense.
The mother is becoming tense.
The crowd is becoming tense.
All at once the child grabs hold of
Santa's beard and pulls. The beard comes
off in the little boy's hands. For one brief
moment the boy's crying stopped, and a
gasp rang out from Neiman Marcus to Saks
Fifth Avenue.
One of the mothers cried, "He's a
fake!"
"Oh, my lord!" another shouted.
The murmurs moved down the
line like a tidal wave.
The little boy's mother snatched
him down from Santa's lap.
"How dare you deceive the children! They
believed. We believed."
The line transformed into a mob.
The accusations came like stones against
the ears of Santa.
"Deceiver!"
"Phony!"
"How could you?"
They carried him across the mall
and past the giant Christmas tree. Others
grabbed the elves and carried them behind.
Shouts went out as the mob went
on. Others joined the throng. Grandmoth­ers,
aunts, and the toys-for-tots-lady.
They moved out through the big
glass doors. Someone had taken the Santa
chair and made of it a cross. They moved
up to a hill so all could see the Santa's
shame. They drove the nails into his hands
right through his little white santa gloves.
The Santa protests, "I didn't
know! It was just ajob! I need the money
for Christmas!"
"Enough of his lies!"
"He has to pay!"
"He made the children cry!"
"Crucify him!"
"Yes!"
"Yes!'
They planted the cross upon the
hill with the elves on either side.
The toys-for-tots-lady brought a
giant box of presents. The children sat
beneath the cross and opened them all.
The Santa was dead.
"Come along, children," the
mothers said. "It's all right now. Pick up
your presents and let's go home.".
Vicky Campo
The Traveler 92 31
Polaroids
.u,..... o~
~ Through the streets of town o The air blows cold tonight
~ A stinging function of a long-forgotten
year
Fires bum upon the hillside
Block the stars out with the light
The blood still dries upon the door
A mother sheds a tear
Polaroids are strewn
Across the bedroom floor
Memories of love and what it meant to me
Close my eyes
And see her head split apart
Hold her close and find her gone
There are times
Times when I think of hell
It doesn't sound so bad
Just freedom in disguise
The barrel of a Luger
Bums cold against my head
Bullet pierces skin and brain
And takes away my pain
Then my eyes are open
Vision turning red
Staring at the ceiling
Finally I am dead
Eric Wincensten
997-2775
995-1767
277-3086
484-4268
252-5212
345-1500
Alcoholics Anonymous
Community Care
Network
Overeaters Anonymous
Narcotics Anonymous
Shanti Group Inc.
Suicide Crisis Hot Line
Letter !From rflte t£ditor
Suggested readings are as follows:
Beyond Codependency, By Melody Beattie
Breaking Free, By Pia Mellody and
Andrea Wells Miller
Codependent No More, By Melody Beattie
The Courage To Heal, By Helen Bass and
Laura Davis
Healing The Shame That Binds You,
By John Bradshaw
I
1/
For the readers who share common histories with the experi­ences
expressed in this year's Traveler magazine, we would
like to provide the following list of communtiy resources and
suggested reading materials.
//' Rhonda L. Baker
--- --.--:::_'=-~:!~-~::.J--­,
II
f /
...._.. .,,~ /".
32 The Traveler 92
GCC JAZZ BAND LOGO SAX MAN FRED SABOTKA
Literary Editor: Vicky Campo; Art Director: Joan Lapre; Assistant Art Director: Rhonda L. Baker;
Literary Staff: Kathy Theile, Mike Belanger, Melissa Finucan-Brown; Graphic Designers: Frank Eager,
Amy Vallani, Mark Sparks, Andy Schaudt, Andrea Riggs, Dana Fine and Dan Krier; Art And Production
Advisors: Mirta Hamilton and Dean Terasaki; Literary Advisors: Joy Wingersky and Jan Boerner; Photog­raphy
Advisor: Dean Terasaki; Printing: Mountain States Printing eRf

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SPRING 1992 VOLUME 25
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Art Poetry
Untitled - Lois Meyer 2 Naked Wait - Kristen Christopher 1
Triangles Lost - Elizabeth Ford 6 Recollections From....- Christopher P. Monroe 3
(3-D) Here and After - June Yonnack 9 Stork-Naked Without An Explantion - Charles Smith 8
Reflections - Brian Ring 15 Drizella - Joyce Barton 9
Theta - Lisa Freeman 16 Big Deals - Charles Smith 10
Katherin - Mary Bott 23 Dance With The Angels - Chris Polloy 12
Blue Study Number one - Jean Anton 28 Satin Doll - Robin L. Kendall 13
New Age - Jean Caruso Foresman 29 Flesh - Catalina Schmtiz 16
Night Fire - Scott Reeves 16
Andalusian Nights - Wayne Rexroat 17
Computer Illustration One Rainstorm At A Time - Joan Aragon 22
Iris - Joan Lapre 1 Gray - Jill Walterbeck 22
Finding One'sself - Michelle Mancini 30 Falling Star - Katherine Christopher 24
The Tree - Kameron Hoffs 26
Ixtapa - Donald D. Shuck 28
Illustration Yes, Little Girl- Donal D. Schuck 28
Polaroids - Eric Wincensten 32
Untitled - Stan Lucas 24
Woman - Dan Krier 25
Einstien - Cheryl Traughber 25 Photography
Reflections - Ann Williams 4
Fiction Dead Tree In The Rocks - Troy B. Buchanan 5
Untitled - Diane M. Anderson 8
He Who Holds The Key - Richard Spencer 4 Young Love - Pam Arnaud 10
Let There be (Shattered) Light-Eric Wincentsen 14 Dreams - Ann Williams 11
Fake santa - Vicky Campo 31 What The Children See - Troy B. Buchanan 18
Girl in a Circle - Ann Williams 20
My Wish Tonight - Diane M. Anderson 27
Non - Fiction Free Yourself - Tina Ehler 31
Common Threads - Christina Vela 6
Eulogy - R. Charles Smith 11
Goya Had It Right, Almost - Shelley L. Handley 18
Starlight - Deborah A. Bushman 27
Special Thanks to the art and literary judges: Dr. H. Herlihy, S.
Starbuck, M. Fisher, R. Callahan, Dr. M. Leskovsky, and B. Hufford.
The Traveler staff also thanks the GCC administration and faculty for
their support and help for this year's publication. Although we were
unable to publish everything submitted, we wish to thank each con­tributor
for the excellent, diverse material we received.
Computer Graphic Illustration Iris Joan Lapre
The Traveler 92 1
2 The Traveler 92
Crections from
ach-!Front
Property
Darkness blankets the coast
while the city lights reflect on
the fog that is rolling in.
Plants of the sea lie heaped
up on the beach like discarded,
dirty laundry.
The air is cool, quiet,
perfect.
A loitering pair of birds scurry from
the pearl-strand-necklace of foam
pursuing them from the sea,
waiting only for its brief retreat
to snatch treasured morsels from
the sea's depth.
White sand squinches up between my
toes, only to be washed off by
the next kiss of the ocean.
Lovers pause to take in its
beauty, then off to partake of
other beauties of nature and themselves.
Slowly, silently, secretly, like a lion
stalking its prey,
the ocean begins to reclaim
the pale sand.
The sand surrenders.
A bicyclist rides past with
a squeaky, rusty chain defying
the silence.
The ocean roars -
broken was the symphony.
A far off light flickers,
piercing the darkness like a
candle.
A flock of birds fly overhead.
The symphony begins again,
Gentle, hinting as to what was
about to come.
Swells of the life-giver
erupt in violent thunderings
only to frighten the birds
and the necklace of foam a
bit more away.
A laughter can be heard from
'neath the waves, an eerie
song without music.
The far off light awakens
me from my hypnotic trance.
I bid Neptune farewell,
so beautiful and yet so
powerful.
Christopher P. Monroe
The Traveler 92 3
~'\'r------------------ First Place Fiction
~ \ He Who Holds The Key
\ Richard E. Spencer
Third Place Photography Reflections Ann Williams
4 The Traveler 92
The Keys. They held the secret.
They had to. There were more than a
hundred keys on each ring. The two rings
were connected by a short heavy chain.
Now the keys were all he had left, all
he could use to escape the approaching
footsteps.
He fumbled frantically with the
keys, trying one after another in the doors.
There were eight doors set around the
small, square building, two doors in each
wall. There were no other openings in the
smooth walls. A path ranfrom door to door
around the structure. It was well worn
because he had spent much of his time
attempting to open these doors. The walls
themselves emitted afaint glow. Although
this illumination hadfaded over the years,
it was still sufficient to see as key after key
failed to unlock the doors. The light ex­tended
to the outer edge of the path. Be­yond
this was nothing, only blackness. And
out of the dark came the sounds of the
footsteps.
It wasn't much of a cave as far as
caves go, only about twenty feet deep and
half again as wide. Daylight was able to
penetrate the furthest reaches of the cave
through its large mouth. The floor was
smooth and unbroken with the exception
of two objects. A grass pallet was made up
along one wall. A short distance from this
was a small earthen water pitcher. On the
bed was the shrunken form of Ma-hati.
As a guru, he had spent most of
his life in meditation but found the mate­rial
world too distracting. Over twenty
years ago, he had come to this remote place
seeking isolation and nirvana. High up on
this mountain he had found the cave which
he now called home. What had drawn him
here was the wind which whistled con­stantly
and melodiously past the mouth of
the cave. This soft, peaceful music was
disturbed now by the harsh, gasping
breathing ofMa-hati. His body was tom by
violent spasms and intense shivering. The
end was near, and yet he was unfulfilled.
As he hurriedly fumbled with the
keys, one after another, he reflected upon
them. He had been collecting them all his
life, the same way that other men collected
and hoarded money. With every journey,
every experience, he had discovered a key
and added it to the ring. (The footsteps
were very near now.) After a time, he'd
added the second ring and now that, too,
was full. "Vishnu," he cursed, wondering
why he had so many keys. "All I need is
one," he thought to himself, "the right
one."
The light from the building was
getting dimmer. It was difficult to discern
the keys. The darkness was closing in and
hadalmost obscured the path. The dreaded
footsteps were at the edge ofthe darkness,
steady, unwavering, approaching ever
nearer.
Ma-hati's eyes fluttered open. It
was dark. He had made it through another
day. Slowly, painfully, he reached for the
pitcher. He knew instinctively where it
was in the pitch black. After drinking, he
placed it in the exact same position. Then,
sighing, he wearily fumbled under the pal­let
for his cache of dried fish. Seeing to his
physical needs had exhausted him, and he
collapsed, soaked with sweat, back on his
bed. The tight knot ofpain in his chest was
agonizing. He tried to concentrate on the
music of the wind. But it could barely be
heard over the dry, rasping and grating
gasps eminating from his aching, pain­wracked
body. As the night air cooled the
sweat, Ma-hati's eyes slowly closed.
The footsteps were right behind
him now, loud and echoing. He ran around
the structure and tried to fit a key into a
lock. He tried three more times before he
had to run from the footsteps again. He
couldn't keep this up for long. He would
eventually tire, and the footsteps would
remain steady. Again and again he would
try a couple ofkeys, run, try a couple keys,
run. Around and around the dimming
structure he ran, pursued by the ominous
and untiring footsteps.
His eyes opened again. It was
light. Ma-hati had made it through one
more night. As he reached for his water, he
let out a small cry of pain. After taking a
few sips, he replaced the pitcher and didn't
notice when it tipped over. He lay there
trembling and moaning. He didn't notice
the peaceful whistling of the wind. He
didn't notice the water trickling towards
his palletfrom the small puddle. And slowly
his eyes closed again.
In the dim light, he tried two more
keys. Unbelievably, the second onefit and
turned. The footsteps stopped, and there
was handupon his shoulder. The lightfrom
the building gave one last bright flicker,
then went out, and there was only black­ness,
dark and cold.
It wasn't much of a cave as far as
caves go. The smooth floor was broken by
only two objects. Asmall earthen waterjug
was lying on its side. Ashort distance from
this was a grass pallet with a still and silent
form lying upon it. And in the silence, there
was only the music of the wind _
Richard E. Spencer
Honorable Mention Photography Dead Tree in the Rocks Troy B. Buchanan
The Traveler 92 5
'r------------------- Honorable Mention Non-Fiction
\------------- Common Threads an Essay
L- -----'-- Christina Vela
ommon
Threads
an
Essay
Christina Vela
6 The Traveler 92
As silent as a graveyard, it overwhelms onlookers
by its size alone. Hanging from the ceiling and laid out on
the floor, it could fill the exhibit hall twice over. Once one
steps by each panel, so lovingly sewn, one realizes it is not
silent at all but very vocal in the images it produces of
persons who have died of Acquired Immune Deficiency
Syndrome, AIDS. Such is the Common Threads Memorial
AIDS Quilt as it was displayed at the Phoenix Civic Plaza.
It represents to many the love and emotion with which they
remember their loved ones, whose spirit is immortalized in
every panel.
Although the panels are individual in color and
design, they span the spectrum of personalities. A beige
lace shawl is sewn into one blanket, and a black shawl is
pinned on another. Dresses and stockings come to life on
black felt, while white champagne glasses gently tip over
on velvet. A pensive charcoal sketch of a man crouching
on a beige background catches glimpses from viewers.
Pictures and even car keys set a tone of melancholic
reminiscence as they lie forever pinned to a tribute to a man
who smiled a lot. Teddy bears create mischief on several
panels. One of these furry creatures, complete with leather
vest and cap, daringly rides a motor cycle. Colorful rain­bows
and glittering stars shine brightly, simulating a much
sought after peaceful plane following death.
More profound than the beautiful designs are the
names and messages sewn onto each blanket. "Leave the
porchlight on; I'll be home soon," states one in bold red
letters. "For Baby," says another in yellow cursive writing. "I love you" and "we love you" blare
in profusion in English, Spanish, and French. Multi-lingual names, Espinoza, Consales, Kunz, and
Laubach, give identification to what otherwise would be anonymous numbers that grow year after
year. Some panels whisper intimacy, "For John, Love, David" or "For Tom, From someone who
knew him." All show love however anonymous or personal the messages may seem.
As one feels the affection emanating from each panel, one can see the griefon faces as they
tearfully move by. People from all walks of life come to view the quilt. White, Black, Asiatic, or
Hispanic, it no longer matters. Men hug each other; women tightly hold hands. A few stoop over
to touch a panel or grab a kleenex from strategically placed boxes around the room. One young girl
• • • • • ..' • •
sits Indian-style in front of a quilt quietly reading from some letters pinned to it. With a hand to her face, the other on
the quilt, she cries unashamedly. She knows why she is there. She wears the white shirt and shorts typical of volunteers
who have helped with the project. An older couple stand arm in arm across the room. One wonders whether it is a child,
friend, or sibling that they have lost. Their losses are everyone's, so many cry at every panel. To see names and faces
opens a wound. Another one has died.
Maybe the onlookers have not shared a meal, a conversation, or a bed with the deceased, but the regret and
griefcome anyway. Because they have never had a chance to know them, they are all less. Each panel means someone
less in their lives. To add to that somber emotion comes the stark realization that next year's quilt will be bigger._
The Traveler 92 7
the words rang through my head
my child wanted answers
the question parents dread
One false word might end it all
so my pace at start was slow
for this was really testing me
What do 1 really know?
"Uhm "
(That's how 1started)
"You see "
(I soon went on)
"Uhm ."
(I reiterated, before I carried on)
"Well, first I met your mother
and then we fell in love
your Mom and 1 got married
with blessings from above
then we planned a family
(I wish I'd planned this speech)
and now back to your question
the answer I will teach"
"Let's see "
(The thoughts 1sweated)
"Is Dairy Queen closed yet?
Why don't we go for Ice Cream?
A Blizzard you can get"
Imagine my elation
when my child roared "O.K.!"
and no other word was spoken
by me along the way
and yet I am so thankful
1 could stay my little chore
for my son was bribed with Ice Cream
at age of twenty-four
R. Charles Smith
or
e .I
-
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_~ea
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----=-II. -----
__a= Ja
What would she know
of loneliness
bland, sand-colored days slowly
sifting through narrow fragile glass into
cold blue midnights
with no one
save the company of a wretched
old maid sister who wanders
barefoot down empty halls listening
for echoes
of might-have-been dreams,
and mother
the "once lovely, belle of the ball,"
she tells us daily,
thin grey hair stringing over
a face deeply creased
from a critical countenance.
Her "if only's" driving
deep the sword
of disillusionment
into the dried-up chambers
of my heart
What would she know, my golden
stepsister and her channing one
enthroned in their picture book lives
never turning pages of want
or need never asking
Why?
Joyce Barton
First Place Poetry ------------------t/~
Drizella --------------t( ~
Joyce Barton ------.1....-----
3 - D Prizewinner Here & After June Yormack
The Traveler 92 9
DEALS
'TIl trade ya?" she'd say,
and it always seemed quite fair
just a tiny little matchbox car
for a great big ball of hair.
"Well, I don't know?" were my first words.
"Come on, It's such a deal
the ball of hair is bigger
it really is a steal."
''I'll trade ya?" she'd say.
I'd look down at all my toys.
I guess the horses were for girls
10 The Traveler 92
and lint was made for boys.
"Well, I don't know?" were my first words.
"Come on, you'll make out good.
I'll never offer lint again
not even if I could."
''I'll trade ya?" she'd say,
And I'd run and get my things
'cause she had yellow paper
and I, just dumb gold rings.
"Well, I don't know?" were my first words.
"Come on, and end this caper.
You really never use the rings
but could always use the paper."
And then one day I looked around
the things she'd traded me:
the ball of hair, the piece of lint
and paper were just three.
So many things I had to cry,
for I finally came to see
she must have loved me most of all
'cause she'd only trade with me.
R. Charles Smith
Third Place Non-Fiction _------I7~
Eulogy ------------I( ~
R. Charles Smith I
f£ ufogy
Sorry, I haven't visited in awhile.
It's not that you haven't been on my mind.
I've been busy. I was sure you knew I
hadn't forgotten you. Five years is a long
time, isn't it?
To tell the truth, I was a little
surprised that I was able to find this place,
having been here only once. Not much has
changed. Oh, the trees are taller, the bushes
fuller, but it's still the same place with the
same emotions.
One ofthe things that has changed
is the flowers. They should be here. I guess
I thought they always would be. But like
everything else, flowers also die. It's strange
how we expect things to stay the same.
They don't, do they?
Second Place Photography Dreams Ann Williams
I was trying to think of the last
thing we had done together; I couldn't.
That sounds terrible. I can't remember the
last thing we'd done together. But maybe
I'm not supposed to remember. Maybe the
last time I saw you should be forgotten.
There were better times, like the time you
helped me catch my first fish.
We were on the shore of the lake.
It was a cold winter morning, and steamy
wisps of fog were rising off the water. The
quiet surrounded us. Once in awhile, rip­pling
circles of water would expand as fish
jumped to snatch bugs from the lake's
surface. The silence snapped as you cast
your fishing line into the water. You waited
for me to do the same. When I felt a nibble
on my line, your instructions were to give
a slight tug, then reel in the fish.
I felt the nibble just as you said I
would. I was so excited I yanked the fish
out ofthe water without reeling it in. It flew
over our heads and onto the rocks behind
us. I still remember the look on your face.
I put that poor little fish through hell just to
throw it back.
That was a fun day. Wejust never
seemed to have enough of those times
together. There was so much you and I
wanted to do. It's not fair to lose someone
you love. I think what bothered me the
most was that you had to be here alone.
Mom and I looked after each other, but
who was taking care of you? That's what
faith is for, isn't it? Mom always had faith;
she knew you were fine. She felt closest to
you when she came here to leave flowers.
Can I tell you something? It's not
that I've been too busy to come; that was
just an excuse. I just couldn't bring myself
to visit this place.
So now it is five years later, and
I'm the one who's alone. You and Momare
finally together again. I know you two will
be fine. That's what faith is for, isn't it?
Take good care of Mom. I love you, Dad.
R. Charles Smith
The Traveler 92 11
< •
..., . - ~ .... 10' :'"
Come my little demon
and look at your dead mother.
Poor little demon
wants to dance with the angels.
Think thoughts of the Bastard, love to
hate Him,
think of ways to kill, spill His acid grin,
wish for the strength to still His stale
heart,
but if He does not die then run again,
pray He won't find you and cut-up your
carcass,
you would deserve it, spreader of unholy
sin,
you are only twelve, but you are lost,
pray you're not already like Him.
Come my little demon
and dance with your mother.
She still lives
but you do not.
Dream of necklaces with crisp glass
shards,
wear them with honor, wear them with
pride
for the Devil is your only lover
and He rests in your mind deep down
inside,
cross through His rivers of urine and
razors,
feel your flem-flesh smolder like paper,
swim without feeling, mourn without
praise,
travel to red realms while your mother
decays,
know never of innocence, know
;.)_('::.: ,,;~,"V(~~•. ~ '.0 ••
""",~ ....~...•r •
-'< ~" ~~:"::::'~"~"~'~'~'::'~'~~:~':~~{':\ ~', .
.... , . ...
-...
Dance
The
Angels
skitter-scatter, splinter-splatter allover
the rug,
tell him you're sorry and all is forgiven,
but know that this pain will serpent
within,
no interpretation, no imagination, no
destination,
know that this madness will always
spin.
.,
Come my little child
and dance with the angels.
Come my little child
crunch crickets with your feet.
And in the closet, the night-nympths
will chuckle,
traces of light will gargle ghost-glue,
paint this picture upon your gravestone,
let it grow larger and become you,
a child that will never know truth from
lies,
a charcoal-crib calling, a death dis­guise,
you are real and unreal and in­between,
you can play with memories of
kerosene.
Come my little child to Heaven.
Come my little child.
Let the angels bring you to Heaven
Honorable Mention Poetry
Dance With The Angels
Chris Pollay
And the folded distortions of cement­crusted
air
shall swallow all your breaths, your
dreams,
your insignificant yellow fears will be
tossed
into caverns of fiery bodies and screams,
the demons will rise up and suck
the vomit from your veins,
and His laughter, like lamb blood,
will scramble your skull shields
and devour your brains.
Come my little child
and dance with the angels.
Come my little child to
Heaven.
And never forget the worms in His
eyebrows,
never let your wrist slip upon His blade,
cringe at His darkness, crawl through
your closet,
watch Him consume the creations you
made,
and as your mother spits vessels of
vermin,
listen closely to the echoes of her terror,
watch her die quickly
but feel her die slowly
and haunt you forever.
And as the Bitch stumbles, the Bastard
will kick her,
battering her eyes with whispers of love,
see His stone hands dig through her
cheekbone,
12 The Traveler 92
Honorable Mention Poetry
Satin Doll
Robin L. Kendall
never of childhood,grow to be a man that
craves his own blood.
Come my little demon
you don't know if you're evil.
Your mother doesn't seem real
but she still loves you.
And your scarred-rings of sulfur will never
recover,
you will never taste redemption or relief,
you must walk with weakness, speak with
blackness,
you must weave worlds with dead belief,
Remember your mother, visit your grave­yards,
but never believe a word she tells you
for you both still live in a slave sorrow-shell,
if you should find happiness, you will not like
it, you will always prefer Hell.
Satin
Doll
Found a satin doll,
it wore red shoes,
and danced to Hungarian Rhapsody.
Told stories of prohibition,
boycotts, and drugs,
said heroin was white.
Beautiful world we live in, what can we do
with it now?
Found a satin doll,
it wore a yellow dress, and read essays by
Huxley.
Said a good man was shot in the back,
said a prayer,
and no one heard it.
Beautiful world we live in, what can we do
with it now?
The Traveler 92 13
Robin L. Kendall
Found a satin doll,
it wore black gloves,
and sang to the theme of "Love Story."
Told stories of socialism, democracy,
and communism,
said freedom was good.
Said the Allegiance and pledged my faith,
said a prayer and hoped someone heard it.
Chris Pollay
~.
'.
Come my little child
t!"L"'-.......... and dance with the angels.
,,,;'.':, '. ';. Come my little child 'fM • .1
't.'!-:' -....:;, don't forget to die.
., . :.-, Come my little child
" - and dance with your
mother. .